


Blood, Violence and Sex

by castielsass



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Demon Stiles Stilinski, Demon!Stiles, Gen, M/M, hurt stiles situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:35:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsass/pseuds/castielsass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets possessed by a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood

Stiles had a pretty normal life, ok, he was certain of it. When he wasn’t running around with werewolves, witnessing murders or being creeped on by various Alphas, his life was downright boring. And Stiles liked it that way. He liked going home after school most days and hanging around the internet and watching movies and bantering with his dad and doing homework. Maybe it was because of all the supernatural elements of the rest of his life, or maybe it was an effort to be a good son, to show the town his father hadn’t failed in raising him alone but either way, Stiles strove to lead as normal a life as possible.  
So when he got possessed by a demon after Thursday detention, it really pissed him off.

 

Scott might have been the first to notice, had his nose not been too busy trying to catch up to Allison’s scent as she moved through the school halls, like chasing smoke through a fan.  
As it stood, and to his credit, he did eventually notice something was off about Stiles. His quips were a little slower, a little darker than usual, but Scott just thought maybe he was feeling down lately, or maybe his sense of humour was just catching up to the fact that he spent most of his time surrounded by bloodthirsty werewolves and a particularly douchebaggy kanima.  
Lydia probably would have been the first to notice, had she not been distracted by her own struggles to overcome the residual trauma left by the death, rebirth and re-death of Peter Hale, killed twice by his nephew. As it was, she was still regaining her steadiness, like a spinning coin. She was busy trying hard to bridge the gap between the vapid, beautiful image she created of herself and her new self, the one that could still slice you into pieces with a glance but started at sudden noises. 

Sherriff Stilinski perhaps would have noticed his son’s odd behaviour, his irregular sleeping patterns, the ability to go days without food, the way he didn’t even flinch when he accidentally sunk a knife into his palm when unloading the dishwasher. But a new string of animal attacks had kept him at the station, working double and sometimes even triple shifts to compensate for the loss of officers. Overworked and exhausted, the Sheriff thought himself lucky if he got time to peer into Stiles’ bedroom and make sure he was there before succumbing to his own fatigue.  
As it stood, none of them noticed. Stiles’ demon hid well, concealed herself in the skinny body, coating his mind in vitriol and her obsessions. But she also chose a good time, one where the efforts of his pack and his father were focused on healing and restoring order. It wasn’t until she revealed herself that any of them could know what hid inside the terrified soul of Stiles. 

 

She was callous, that much had been certain when she was alive, but inside it was so much worse. Every feeling she has ever voiced was magnified. Hell had only intensified the worst of her and scraped out everything good, leaving her hollow but heavy with hate and burning red fury. The first time Stiles broke out of her control was the day before she revealed herself. They were in class, and she was going over the ways she would prefer to kill his father. Stiles tried hard to ignore her, curling up in a brighter corner of his mind where she hadn’t yet infected him, but only covered with a fine shield of control. The places she had taken over were dark and scared Stiles deeply. He ventured into a darker corner and caught himself on strings of half made plans, images flashing by him like half films, soundless and saturated bright with imagination. His father, broken into pieces and laying strewn across a blank grey ground, white bone and dried brown blood splattered everywhere. His father, staged to look like a suicide, his neck tied with his mother’s belt. Lydia, tied down, tree branches laying across her, burying her under gasoline-soaked foliage and setting it alight. Scott, slashed to pieces, his scalp torn and flapping open obscenely like a tongue. Even Allison, wide eyed and mouth open, a red niche in her chest where she struck her with her own exploding arrow. Danny, beaten and ripped into strings of meat. Jackson, his face burned down to a harsh brown mush, his hands broken and twisted. Derek. There were so many of Derek. Stiles fought to get back, retreating to his safer corner, crawling backwards and trying to shake off the images of his friends hurting, dying. But the images of Derek were so much stronger-Derek hanging upside down with his stomach torn out, Derek drowned in blood, Derek electrocuted, Derek strangled, Derek whimpering and crying for his mother, Derek and his legs and arms short, cut off, Derek burned and melted.  
Stiles curled up inside his mind. His body slumped back on his chair, the demon keeping him still and quiet even as he shrieked out his fury and pain; wishing so hard to break her control, knowing the reason the death dreams of Derek were so strong and numerous was because they weren’t only desires, but wishes and memories.  
Before Stiles knew what he was doing, his own hand, his real hand shot forward and shoved his book to the ground. Stunned into stillness, the demon hissed and curled closer inside him, shoving him back down and taking full control again. It had been enough. Stiles now knew he could break free. The fire had been set. 

The next day, Stiles awakened earlier than usual, sluggish, trying to reconnect his thoughts to himself, to see what was happening. He felt bumping steps and blinking brightness. The demon allowed him closer, to see what was happening outside. Gerard Argent stood in front of him. Stiles tried to shrink back, but couldn’t move. He felt the presence of others at his back and a quick flip through the memories in his head filled him in, Jackson and Scott to his right, Derek to his left. Gerard was talking and Stiles forced himself to listen, to fight the new, numbing influence of the demon.  
“…And what about Stiles, here? What does the boy do while you all run gallivanting through the…pack excursions…bonding…how does your pack function if they haven’t even seen each other at their worst, most animalistic, the true souls of you animals…You cannot tell me he’s satisfied with that, with being the weakest of the group, the least bonded, the least talented…he will want to be changed sooner or later, one cannot remain happy constantly being the weakest…”  
Stiles struggled in and out of consciousness, his focus helped by the narrow, laser beam fury coming from the centre of the demon. Before he even knew what was happening, he felt his head tilt to the side, the scene in front of him turning grey as his eyes flicked over black.  
The demon hissed and coiled up like a snake, ready to strike with words and hurt. Her smile felt vicious on Stiles’ mouth, cruelly twisting up his plump lips into a stretched parody. She spoke through him.  
“Who says I’m the weakest?”  
Gerard reacted the instant Stiles’ eyes turned black, his hand grabbing the hilt of a dagger and shoving it deep into Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles laughed. He tutted and tugged the blade back out, twisting it to shove deep into Gerard’s stomach. Derek was the first to move, of course, gripping the back of Stiles’ hoodie, and turning him fast, letting go when Stiles raised an eyebrow.  
“Hi, honey,” Stiles heard himself say, hot blood dripping down his wrist. “I’m home.”


	2. Violence

“No.”   
Stiles heard Derek say once. He felt his head tilt to the side, his lips blow out in an over exaggerated pout, hips tilted.   
“Did you miss me?”  
“Kate,” Derek hissed, easing back and crouching as if to spring. “Get out of him.”   
“Jesus,” said Jackson, “What is it with everyone you know coming back to life, Derek?”  
“She’s not alive, she’s a demon,” said Derek, sliding back another pace, keep in motion, never stilling long enough for Stiles’ black filmed eyes to stay on him. “And she’s possessing Stiles.”  
“Little behind on that news, babe, I’ve been riding this body for three weeks already. You really didn’t notice? I mean, I guessed the idiot and the sheriff wouldn’t notice. Not like they give a goddamn about him, but you sugar? You really missed the boat on this one.”   
“Woah,” Said Jackson again. Scott remained silent, guilt choking him up. Stiles turned his head to them both and waved a hand. There was a quiet pulsing noise and they both flew backwards, Scott crashing into a tree, Jackson landing painfully on the ground, both unconscious.   
Stiles smirked, letting Derek move around him in slow circles, sizing him up. “You could kill me, sure, but you know that’s just gonna kill your boy Stilinski, right? Go, on, shove a dagger through his heart. Literally.” She grinned again, and Stiles surged up in fury, taking over his body for a second. The black on his eyes slipped back and Stiles’ mouth fell open in shock. Derek reached for him. Stiles’ head shot back as if he had been punched in the face and Kate’s grin took over again. The black film slot over his eyes again.   
“He’s a feisty one,” Kate grinned. “Keeps on in here, shouting and banging. He’s furious; it’s adorable. Like a kitten.”  
Derek stilled, his chin down, eyes red. 

“He is the most fun. I mean, I picked him for a reason, Derek. For you. I thought I’d give him a hand, you know? Nudge him in the right direction. You should see what he thinks about you, sweetie. It’d put the filthiest porn to shame. But living in here, twenty-four seven? It’s just a bonus. He’s so scared, and angry and whiny, it’s just…delicious.”

Kate advanced on Derek, tilting Stiles’ hips suggestively, knife still held tight in skinny fingers. Derek stayed still, nerve in his jaw jumping. She lifted the blade and pressed the flat of it against his cheek, dried blood of her father flaking off against his stubble. Derek met her black eyes, stomach clenching as Stiles’ long lashes shadowed his cheek, disarmingly soft against the coal black of his eyes.   
His lips parted, mockingly sweet and pink and he leaned in. Derek had the time to think _Not like this, please_ before there was a noise like a snapping band, and Stiles tilted forward. His mouth opened wider and he choked. The black of his eyes flicker to brown and back again, as Stiles fell to his knees. Derek caught a glimpse of Allison behind a tree, crossbow lifted and aimed towards him. He dropped down, instinct taking over before reason, landing on his knees in front of Stiles as he coughed up harder and harder. Derek gripped his arms before he could think and Stiles’ head shot back, his jaw dropping painfully wide. Black smoke billowed out of his mouth; Stiles made horrible, retching noises, tears streaming from his steady brown eyes.   
The thick smoke gathered above his head like a storm and the last of it cleared his mouth. It shot downward, shoving through the ground.  
Stiles dropped forward, and Derek saw the arrow embedded in his shoulder, blood darkening the lighter red of his hoodie. He gripped it and Allison rushed forward. 

“Don’t touch it!” 

Derek ignored her and ripped it out, Stiles letting out a shrill cry when the expanded arrowhead tore free from his shoulder, a large lump of flesh going with it. Derek hissed and threw the arrow to the ground, going to press his hand against the hole. He let Stiles lean against his chest, his hand stilling when he saw the thin black threads winding through the wound. He fumbled for Stiles’ phone, tapping in the number for Doctor Deaton and wrapping an arm around Stiles’ good shoulder to steady them both.   
“Don’t touch it, I mean it,” Allison said, putting her crossbow in her bag. “It’s leftover from her.” Her eyes were wet. Derek pretended not to notice.   
In the end, it had been Allison to notice something wrong with Stiles. It took some studying, but she read up on possession, and narrowed it down to a low level demon, without much power. Easy enough to send back to Hell, using an arrow carefully inscribed with Enochian, the arrowhead an expanding one; dipped in mountain ash. It wouldn’t kill it, but it would get it out of Stiles and that was what mattered. She had planned to persuade Stiles, Lydia and Danny to get an anti-possession tattoo with her.  
It probably wouldn’t take much persuading now.


	3. Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I heard you were possessed. By the spirit of Kate Argent.”

Stiles woke screaming. The chill of the metal sheet underneath his stomach held his skin to it for a heart breaking second as he lurched up. He panicked when cool hands closed firmly around his waist, and he whirled around, injured shoulder dropped down defensively. Words filtered through to him and he started to register them when he looked down and saw square dark hands encased in latex holding him carefully, rather than sharp white hands with broken blood red nails. He blinked up at Deaton who loosened his grip on his waist when he stopped struggled. Stiles gently pulled away from Deaton and stumbled over to a mirror on a table. He lifted it and examined his eyes.  
“Scott here? I don’t remember, um. Allison?” Stiles turned around, mirror handle held tight in aching hands. “Do you even know what happened?”  
“I heard you were possessed. By the spirit of Kate Argent.” Deaton grasped Stiles’ wrist, leading him to sit back on the table. Stiles winced again at the coolness, but the chill was better than burning.  
“Scott is outside, I asked him to wait there while you were unconscious and I didn’t need him anymore. Allison is there, too. I told the rest to leave, I hope you understand why.” Deaton quirked an eyebrow, laying cool hands over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles looked down at it while Deaton replaced his gloves with a sterile pair. Stiles was wearing a loose white vest he was sure he didn’t own. It looked like Derek’s.  
At his silence, the vet let out a soft ‘hmm’. “Perhaps you don’t understand why. I thought it best for them, and I didn’t think you’d want them to see you. Not like that. I needed Scott and Derek briefly to hold your body down while I worked, but when you no longer needed it, I sent Derek to the forest. He thinks he’s gone to find herbs that will help. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had sent him out for wild parsley. I figured you’d be more comfortable seeing him again, privately. On your own terms. For once,” Deaton gave a loose smile and a knot in Stiles’ stomach loosened.  
“Thank you. But ugh…What do you, what does that mean? I needed to be held down?”

Someone was screaming, and it wasn’t human. Shrill shrieks, painful and Stiles retched up blackness and smoke. His lungs burned without any air and his head was thrown back, flashes of consciousness mixed up with smacks of images inside his head. Torn faces, distorted with blood and streaks of coal black burned flesh loomed against his mind. Stiles joined in with the screaming.  
There was something holding his arms down and something else holding his ankles. There was ice cleaving his shoulder in two, agonising cold spreading down to his heart. Stiles jerked his head and something loosened up on his chest for long enough to let him breathe.  
Everything went black for a second and Stiles coughed and coughed and choked on air. Everything left him, he waited in a vast vacuum of nothingness and then he heard a soft song. The thing around his ankles held tighter and Stiles looked down to see long strands of blood red flesh slithering and spreading his legs, tight as a noose. He tried to lift a hand and got it to his chest, hard and cold as frozen glass before it was snatched back by something invisible, pinned beside his head.  
The song got louder and it was tinny, like it was being played on an old tape. A little girl cycled out of the darkness and Stiles hitched out a quiet sob, because she was climbing off her bike and walking softly towards him. Her feet made no sound but the song got louder and louder. She laid a hand on his face. She had no eyes.  
Stiles went limp and the straps around his ankles loosened. He managed one quiet sob before she placed her hot hand gently over his mouth.  
“I just wanna go, please.”

“It still needs to be kept under control,” Deaton said, dipping a paper towel in a sweet smelling watery paste. He pressed the green paste against the back of Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles sniffed hard when it stung.  
“My mother always said that when it stings, that means it’s working,” Deaton told him, smiling paternally when he let Stiles sit back on the table.  
Stiles rubbed a hand over his eyes and crossed his ankles, swallowing hard. It was so strange, disorienting to be able to move so freely. He could do whatever he wanted with less than a thought. He could stand up and run if he wanted and there would be nothing inside him to curl around his intestines and yank him back or to settle burning hot fingers into his brain and keep him still.  
To celebrate, he crossed his legs and fidgeted.  
The girl laid her hand on his face and Stiles gave up. The blackness around them was closing in and turning lighter. Stiles was too afraid to turn his head. Above the little girl’s frizzy black hair faces were growing out of the shadows.  
His eyes slid shut and Stiles could feel his legs being spread, the noose around his wrists tightening, pulling his body in two when it all went blissfully silent for one minute. Then burning, bright hot, Stiles opened his eyes in a different room.  
The walls were painted sweet yellow and there was a teddy bear in his hands. Someone called a girl’s name and Stiles felt his feet moving towards the voice.  
There was a monster in the kitchen. Someone he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself from going there. A soft female voice whispered inside his mind and that was familiar. _There was a monster in daddy and the monster was hurting mommy._ Stiles’s hand loosened and the teddy bear dropped onto the floor. At the click of glass eyes against the tile the monster turned and Stiles almost choked with relief when he didn’t recognise either of the parents, not the man with black eyes and broken fingers or the woman with bloodied blonde hair vomiting on the ground.  
Stiles felt his head tilt to one side and a real voice, the most concrete thing yet asked “Daddy? Are you and Mom sick?”  
There was nothing but darkness and pain for a second and the monster hauled Stiles’ tiny body up onto the counter and whispered into his ear. The dress on the little girl’s body lifted around her thighs when she sat and she didn’t notice but Stiles wanted to tug it down, cover her but this was only a memory and he couldn’t change anything.  
The girl was scared, Stiles could feel it in his belly but her parents were the only ones she could seek comfort from, so she tried. Her heart stopped fluttering so hard when her father laid a gentle palm along her cheek, his thumb curved under her eye. She started to smile, assured that the black eyes were a magic trick and her mother was just not feeling well.  
Stiles started to slip away, returning to the dark place when from miles away through the girl’s eyes he saw her father’s nail glint, bloodied and broken when he held her tight and scooped out her eyes.  
The door slid open and Stiles revelled in the luxury of turning his head to see Derek stalking in, holding a cardboard box in one hand. He handed it to Deaton and saw beside Stiles. Deaton excused himself, taking the box with him.  
“You’re awake again,” Derek said. “Properly this time?”  
“I don’t remember being awake before. So yes, I guess. Maybe. Thanks for the parsley,” Stiles said. There was silence for a moment and Derek turned to him.  
“Parsley?”

When he came back to the darkness this time; there was a crowd standing in front of him.  
Stiles lay back and closed his eyes and scaled hands, talons, claws, fingers closed in on him.  
When it was over, each broken hand lay on his forehead for one second like they were each reversing every blessing he had ever been given.

“I could really, really go for some food right now. Like giant platters of fries and burgers and gravy and fried chicken and pretty much every food I forbid my dad to eat. He’s ok, right? By the by?”  
“You father is fine. Scott text him from your phone, said you were staying at his. Since the fight and coming here; you’ve only been gone from him a day and a half.”  
Stiles nodded, and his hands drifted down to his stomach, palms pressing against the slowly, slowly dissipating ball of anxiety and terror laying hot in the pit of his stomach. “Well, that might be the longest sentence you’ve ever said to me.”  
Derek rolled his eyes and Stiles ached with the familiarity of it. “I’m going to leave now, to get food.”  
Stiles opened his mouth to tell him what he wanted but Derek was already gone. Maybe that meant he’d be bringing back a lot of food.  
“All of the food Derek! All of the food!” He called and the dry feel of his throat moving with the shout was the best thing he had ever felt.  
The song that had been playing softly throughout his torture in the dark place grew fainter and fainter and when nothing new approached him, Stiles dared to hope. Just as quickly as the hope grew in his chest, it was shattered when something wrapped tight around his ribcage and yanked him down. Stiles shrieked and clawed and when he opened his eyes, Deaton’s hands were cool on his waist and he was talking quietly, rambling.  
Deaton came back when Derek had left and quirked an eyebrow at Stiles, sitting on the table. He pulled the white vest aside and lifted a thin flat tool from a pocket and he used it to scrape the dry thick paste from Stiles’ shoulder. When he was done, he handed the tool to Stiles to hold and Stiles examined it, turning it so the light caught the side that wasn’t encrusted with healing paste. He could make out inscriptions in the metal, but he didn’t understand what they were. Before he asked, Derek slid up around the table and Stiles jerked back automatically. Derek didn’t apologise but he did drop his head and hand Stiles a warm brown bag.  
Stiles opened it and let out a little cheer, deliberately knocking his foot into Derek’s leg.  
“Aw, you got _everything_!”  
Derek just mumbled “I tried.”  
In front of them both, Deaton laid a thick white bandage over the cleaned, neatly stitched wound in Stiles’ shoulder and rolled his eyes. “You can go home now.”

 

When Stiles had eaten as much food as he could possibly manage, he burped and rolled the paper bag back up, cooling remains of food stinking up Derek’s fancy car. Derek was driving, and talking to Stiles, telling him they had to go to his apartment. The pack was waiting there. They all wanted to see him. There was a tattoo artist waiting there too, Jackson had paid him extra to come out to the house and set up there so they didn’t waste any time, apparently.  
When they got to the apartment, and Stiles had thrown the food bag in the garbage and re-joined the pack in the living room, the tattoo artist-a woman with fine blonde hair, and thin lips-was finishing up Lydia’s tattoo. Before he could sit down, Derek was pulling him back into the kitchen.  
“You’ll need to give her this,” Derek shoved a sheet of paper into his hand, “and decide where you want it. Allison’s father said it can be anywhere, but it’s most potent if you put it on your chest, above your heart. Five points of something, extra protection. Get it there.”  
At Derek’s statement, Stiles quirked an eyebrow and Derek rolled his eyes _“Please.”_  
Stiles grinned and it felt strange on his face, stretching his lips genuinely like they hadn’t been in weeks.  
“Shut up. They’re all different. It’s to do with birth times or something, each angel is assigned a different day of the week and it’s stronger if you use your angel and their symbol. Yours is Gabriel.”  
Stiles opened up the page, eyes widening at the intricate word. “Angels are real?”  
Derek shrugged. “Demons are real.”  
Being tattooed was awkward at first, he had to lie back on an erected folding table while he got his chest shaved and cleaned, and the artist laid the design over the patch of skin. While he checked the placement out in a mirror she handed to him, she ventured “Odd symbols you guys are getting.”  
Stiles just shrugged and when no one else replied she sighed and shut up. The buzzing of the needle felt harsh at first and Stiles wants to squirm around, his leg twitching. After the third irritated “Stay still!” he got, he managed to lower his fidgeting into a more acceptable twitch, curling his toes and relaxing them in his shoes. The tattoo gun got louder as the artist edged closer to his heart and Stiles swallowed. Curl. She slid back, covering a line of blue dye easily. Relax.  
Curl, breathe, relax. The pain had edged into something softer, almost pleasant. Stiles was afraid to close his eyes at first, but as he breathed in he felt the room breathe in rhythm. Danny was talking to Jackson quietly, Boyd’s voice even softer when he spoke to Lydia. Scott, Allison and Derek weren’t talking, but Stiles could hear them breathing.  
A few minutes later he awoke to a cool wet paper towel being wiped over his chest, and the tattoo artist hummed; “Never had someone fall asleep on me before.”  
Stiles quirked the corners of his mouth up, “It’s been a long day.”  
Later, when the artist had left and Stiles still hadn’t bothered to get her name, he threw himself onto Derek’s armchair and curled up and tried to go back to sleep. Scott approached him before he could even get his eyes shut and Stiles bit back a snap.  
“Are you ok, man? Anything you need?”  
Stiles blinked and for just one second words burbled up in his throat, accusations and cruelty and vapid bitterness and then he swallowed them all back down and replied; “Peachy.”

Scott sighed and knelt down and put his warm hand on Stiles’ knee and Stiles shrunk away. “I just need to sleep, Scott. I’ll call you tomorrow, ok? Just wanna sleep.”  
“I know,” Scott said, softly and Stiles almost drowned in the guilt that rushed through him. “I know, but your dad is working a late shift tonight, I was gonna ask if you wanna stay over. Or I could stay with you.”  
Stiles pressed his knuckles to his mouth, and Derek interrupted; “He’s staying here. You and Allison can stay here. But he’s not leaving.”  
Stiles allowed himself a very brief moment of soaking in the cool tone of Derek’s voice before he nodded, swallowing pathetically. “Yeah, stay. I’m just gonna… Just sleep, ok? G’night, love you, shh.” Stiles murmured and Scott winced, chewing on his lip. He whispered back, “Yeah, love you too, man. Night.”

Stiles woke and he was warm, much too warm. He threw off a blanket someone had left on him during the night and stood up, far too aware of the darkness in the living room. He wandered out into the hall where someone had left the light on and it reflected into the living room enough for him to make out the outlines of his friends. Scott was asleep on the couch beside him, Allison tucked in on the inside, all dark hair fluffing into Scott’s face, neatly arranged except for one haphazard leg thrown over his waist. Stiles continued on, following the light until it got brightest. Derek’s bedroom door was left ajar and Stiles took the invitations, shutting it safely behind him.  
Derek opened his eyes when Stiles knelt on the bed, and he almost looked like he was going to question it for a minute, but when Stiles lay on top of the covers on his back and breathed deeply, he didn’t bother.  
“You ok?” He asked, voice gruff with sleep and Stiles nodded automatically. “I’m fine.”  
He turned, pulled a cover over him and then threw it off. “I’m not. I’m not ok, I’m not fine, I’m not even _kind of_ peachy.”  
He waited for Derek to interrupt and when he didn’t, Stiles didn’t know how to go on. There were too many explanations bubbling up in his chest, too much pain; from the itch of the fresh tattoo to the sweltering ache of his shoulder to the stupidly numerous tiny scratches and bug bites and bruises spread all over his body like stars in the sky. When he blurted out; “Everything is _burning_ ,” it simultaneously felt too big and too small for everything he needed to say. But he couldn’t say anymore. He looked at Derek, hoping, begging him to understand and Stiles could see in every harsh line of Derek’s face that he did.  
“I just, everything is…” Stiles struggled for another word and choked when he couldn’t find one, turning in on his side and curling up to sob. Derek made a space, a tiny, quiet space when he pulled his arm away from his body and Stiles slid into it gratefully; the hot, dark space with the rumble of breathing achingly, scorching familiar.


End file.
